Miscellanies
by EleanorRigbee
Summary: Sam regrets a lot of things nowadays, but he's afraid of more. Sam, Dean, and the Bargain [Post Crossroads Blues]


**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys. Don't sue.**

**Spoilers: Up to Crossroad Blues**

**A/N: **Was supposed to be a drabble, turned into Sammy angst. Tell me what you think.

-

"**_The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread"—Blaise Pascal _**

**-**

_2 a.m._

The clerk gives them the weird eye when they cheek in—because two strange men with an ominous ride, lone duffle bags and haggard faces are always given the weird eye in his experience. Sam is too tired to care and Dean doesn't bother with playing a part.

The room is small and the furniture looks cramped and everything smells like burnt tobacco and stale air, like it hasn't been occupied in a while. Or cleaned (Sam hopes it's the former and falls face first into his bed).

Dean does a once over of the room, checks and salts, and Sam is just grateful it's not his turn. Instead he stretches out, trying to work the kinks out of his body, with mediocre results. He hears the groan of the other bed and the jingle of car keys as Dean empties his pockets, followed by the shuffle of shoes and then another bed creak.

Sam listens as the T.V. is turned on with a static pop, followed by a droning warble that is quickly changed in favor of something with a laugh track. His head hurts, from temple to neck, and what he wants now is sleep. Because now might be one of the few times when sleep is the lesser of two evils.

In sleep there is the half chance that Dean would have answered the question and said no, and honestly meant it. (In sleep there is the half chance that Dean would have answered the question and at least lie).

_Correspondence_

The sun pours into the impala's front seat, making his eyes burn and the leather uncomfortable.

Dean drives with silent determination, Kansas blaring from the speakers in a wave of washed-out lyrics and seamless melodies. Sam is tempted to turn just as another guitar rift rips through the car and rolls through his brain, and tell his brother that loud music doesn't mean he can't talk or think about things to talk about.

Because sitting in the front seat all Sam can think about is the non answer of the night before, and the silence that Dean won't break and the thought that Dean was going to make the deal (that even now he is mulling the idea in his head, storing the possibility in his bag of tricks, as though it were a resource and not the warped bargain it is). And it makes something inside of him twist and tighten and all he can remember is his brother, broken and small in that hospital bed and how it struck him for a single second more than the fact that Dean was dying. Because Dean has never been small and even now Sam finds the notion impossible.

At the same time Sam can already see his brother reach out and turn the music up louder, a reflect that comes as naturally as parrying or striking out, because while the music can't stop Sam from talking, it can stop Dean from listening.

The sun glares on, and Sam holds his silence (but not his peace) and, within the span of a fugitive glance, Dean looks small.

_Hold_

Sam misses his dad. John Winchester was a lot of things, most of them disagreeable, and Sam is still the first person to admit it. Death hadn't changed that. Sam hated his father most days out of the year, because sometimes it was as easy for him to blame him for everything as it was for Dean to forgive him. But none of that means that he doesn't have the right to miss his father, to feel guilty and ashamed and regret and, oh God, Sam regrets a lot of things nowadays.

He's not happy his father died, and the idea that he made a deal with the thing they spent their entire lives (his entire life) hunting makes his stomach turn, even if it is the reason Dean is still here, because their family was fucked and dysfunctional but that doesn't mean Sam can ever be glad about something like his father dying, even if the circumstances were what Sam doesn't want to think they were.

John Winchester did a lot of things with his life (their lives), but this, Sam doesn't think he can hold it against him.

_Murmur _

Greenwood, Mississippi is miles and days and weeks behind them by the time something finally gives.

The television has only four working channels and the room smells damp this time, a mysterious stain blotting from the corners of the ceiling, brown and rusty, like bloodstains when they've set into the fabric and no amount of washing can get them out.

The beer is warm and flat and really shitty—you can't afford the good stuff on a hunter's salary—and it dries Sam's mouth out more than it quenches any real thirst. But it helps a little, dulls the edges of his thoughts in the same way it dulls Dean's and dulled Dad's and now he can understand a few things a bit better. He's not drunk (he's a Winchester too damn it) but the beer loosens his tongue, makes it easier for the words to come out.

"I'm glad you're alive." He says, because it's all he's been able to come up with in the miles and days and weeks between Dean and the possibility of another bargain and their silence. "I'm glad you're alive" in place of "I'm glad you're not dead" because _alive_ is the whole point.

There is confusion on his brother's face, bewildered and brief before it slips under the well placed mask of composure. Something in Dean's eyes stays bright though, and Sam thinks his words are months too late in coming.

"Got a thing for it myself." Dean mutters, the words mumbled and steady and maybe a little bit false, before taking a long drink, shutting the conversation down before Sam can get anything else out. It's not nearly enough but Sam can't say anything else. He can't validate his brother's life. He can't say that he misses is Dad but would miss him more (he can't say what Dean wants him to say or agree with whatever it is that Dean is still contemplating in his head and hiding away).

It's not a contest. It shouldn't have to be.

(But then, fathers shouldn't have to sell their souls for their sons' lives and demons shouldn't be able to offer the impossible. And beneath the equality of it all, Sam has to admit he would never forgive Dean if he ever did (die) do something like their father did).

_I'm glad you're alive, _Sam chants in his head as he lies back on the lumpy mattress, the white noise of the television washing over him as the beer turns sour on the back of his tongue. _You're alive, you're alive, stay alive, I need you alive_, _you're his legacy. You can be more—_

But Sam keeps his silence. And nothing is fixed.

-

**End**


End file.
